My Spy
by Scrunchy
Summary: I don't know up from down, or if I can keep from chucking my breakfast all over Spy. Engie once told me that there's no gravity in space, and you'd just be floating around up there. This must be what it's like—kissing Spy is like having no gravity. Sister story to It Gets Me Places. Can be read independently. Spy/Scout.
1. Chapter 1

**Alright, this is a sister story to It Gets Me Places. It's a Spy/Scout story from Scout's point-of-view, you don't need to have read It Gets Me Places first to read this, but that one's complete. This fic actually starts a few months before IGMP, because why the heck not.**

**Special thanks to Ilana for helping with pacing and making this chapter less dumb! Also, she drew the story cover because she's amazing.**

**Disclaimer: Team Fortress 2 belongs to Valve. **

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Okay, so me and the team were all drinking and spending all kinds of faggy bro time together. It ain't often that we're actually in one place when we're on leave in the city unless it's to sleep, leave, or dinner's on Engie. Christmas is a weird holiday like that, it makes people that are usually okay being nowhere near each other want to be all over the same space and each other and drink and be happy and shit.

We had our own little room in the bar—it's one of those fancier joints that has about three private rooms for parties and then a big bar room that isn't anywhere near as sleazy as the ones I usually hang out in. We didn't really want to bother the other people in the place by talking loudly about weapons and respawn and how much fucking blood got caught in Demo's moustache during that last battle—also, HQ was paying for it, so that's our signal to go all out.

All eyes were on Demo, Engineer had finally agreed to rig up some kind of siphoning system so that he could just stick a tube down in one of the kegs and let it drain into his open mouth. Bets were being taken on whether he could get the whole keg down—in the form of drinks that we weren't even paying for, it's really just another way to get sluiced. Y'know, "Bet you five shots he can't get it all down," and then, "I'll take that bet and raise you a bottle of Jack," and you just keep haggling on it until it looks like he's actually going to do it. That's when Engineer gets accused of helping him cheat. A couple of fistfights and broken chairs and glasses later and everyone's happily drinking themselves into a stupor again.

Just another night in paradise, man.

The third argument of the night was just getting started when I saw Spy snort and kind of hedge his way out. I was in the middle of getting another shot. I tipped our bartender—she's a real sweetheart for putting up with these assholes—and downed my drink before following him. Spy's a pretty cool guy, he's always getting the women, always saying all these smooth lines like he's all that and a pack of smokes. Whatever he was doing _had _to be awesome—more awesome than those other mooks fighting over something stupid, like whether Pyro's a girl just because it's been sipping fruity little cocktails through a straw all night.

He didn't even notice me following. If he had, he probably wouldn't have made a beeline for this blonde dude and leaned in close to talk right in his ear. Like so fucking close his lips brushed the other dude's skin a couple of times. That kind of threw me off, so I ducked behind one of the dividers that some of the booths in there had for privacy—like I said, ritzy joint. They had really nice hardwood floors, dividers between tables in some places; they served food that wasn't dripping with grease and didn't have at least one type of hair in it; the girls weren't dressed like complete sluts, but showed just enough to get a few extra bucks from the guy without his wife/girlfriend/one-night-stand getting offended. They also had a smoker's section and a non-smoker's section, which was really freaking weird, but that's where I had been expecting Spy to go.

They headed away from the direction of the smoker's section and I thought they might be going to the can when they just breezed right by it. They didn't even glance around, still being all Chatty-McFaggots like they were the best friends in the world. I was suddenly more interested in following incognito. Maybe they were just going outside for a smoke. That's when you can get some of the best conversation out of a guy. Share a cigarette with him, and out come the best fucking stories. They were probably just old bros wanting to share a smoke—talk about life in the past few months. We don't come to this place often enough, makes having friends really hard unless you like letters and using your phone minutes on 'em.

We passed some offices, a janitor's closet and a break room proclaiming: Employees Only.

Spy pulls out his cigarette case as the other guy opens the door for him. I like hanging around Spy when he smokes. The kind he buys are nice: foreign, spicy, masculine. Like I said, nice. You don't even have to smoke one and you'll like 'em.

I wasn't sure why he couldn't smoke in our private room—Soldier and Demo were. Hell, even Engie had lit up. Besides, I'm pretty sure his friend would be cool with getting a few free drinks. Who wouldn't?

I eyed his pal as the door swung closed. Well… maybe it was better he kept his friend away from the rest of the team. From the dress of the guy, I could tell he was a fancy pants like Spy. Solly and Demo make more jokes about exploding organs than farts on a good night- get them drunk and the scale tips a little more in the other direction.

I crept forward and eased the door open, hoping I could just slide into the conversation like usual.

Even though I'm not completely sure what my plan was in the first place, it doesn't really matter anymore.

There's no way that I'm exiting this door.

I thought that they were just bros. The kind that are super friendly with each other and are allowed to hang and hug and do all that other faggy shit that only people who've known each other for years do.

_This is totally fucking different._

Bros don't pin other bros to the wall and let Bro A's hands grab ass (with his unlit cigarette still between his index and middle fingers) while Bro B's are on the wall and his mask and his shoulders and just can't seem to figure out where they want to settle. Bros don't push up against each other with their lips locked together and their tongues occasionally flashing in the dim-ass lighting of the alleyway. It's like they don't have to breathe, and it makes me a little weak in the knees to see this kind of… I don't know. Skill? Want? Need?

No matter how you slice it, Spy and this dude are_ not_ the right kind of bros.

As soon as it clicks in my mind, I retreat through the door and scramble back, just in case they heard the door close. Once I'm safe and leaning against the door of that Janitor closet I saw, I just kind of sit there, stare at the ceiling and trying to piece together what I just saw.

_Spy's a fag._

Not the kind of affectionate-insult fag that I call everyone, but a _seriously serious_ fag. The kind that puts on makeup and dresses and has romantic dinners and bubble baths and drinks wine—not like the whole bottle straight from the neck, but just a glass to get in the mood before _fucking dudes_.

I always kind of suspected it, but _shit_, I didn't want it to be true or _know about it if it was, Goddamn_.

How can I work with a guy like that? Knowing that he's probably watching my ass when I run out the door first and he's turning invisible and being creepy.

I know he doesn't shower with the rest of us, but now I wonder if he just sits there, cloaked and waiting for us to like start rubbing dicks or something. Jesus fucking Christ, I can't fucking believe this.

A glance around the closet sets off a bit of claustrophobia. I have to get out of here, I want to go drink and bust some dude's skull against the floor. Y'know, manly stuff that's totally not gay.

I stand up and peek out of my closet before walking out and running a hand through my hair. Coast's clear, so I skedaddle before I run the risk of actually getting caught.

Once I'm back in the main barroom, I take a look around and puff out my chest with new confidence from the adrenaline rush of getting away with something. I don't really want to get completely shit-faced anymore, I might start talking shit and give myself away. I've heard things about Spy, about the kinds of shit he's done to guys who pissed him off. Not going down that road. Nope.

I go back for just another scotch before ducking out again. After seeing that faggy fest of faggotry, I gotta make sure none of that gay shit rubbed off on me.

As I look around the bar, I notice a lot more homo-signals than usual. Like girls being too close so they can talk to each other, 'cause it's kind of loud and guys drunkenly leaning on each other because they're having a blast being out on the town.

I scope out an oblivious babe sitting at a corner table. Girls don't come to bars alone _not_ to get picked up, right? She's gotta be a nine and a half, maybe even a ten—I can't tell how tall she is from the way she's leaning forward to sip at her straw.

I pause halfway to her table, realizing that I have no plan whatsoever.

Okay, so Spy has a girl like every time we get out of the base (seriously, fucking homos and their dickery. Save some for the straights, you assholes.). What does he _do_?

He acts French. Duh.

"Ah, Ma-dame-oi-sell, may I buy your next drink, _onhonhon_?" that totally sounds like Spy. She's smiling; I give myself a pat on the back before moving forward. "So what's your—?"

All of a sudden, a hand clamps down on my shoulder and I'm slung around to face a really angry, strangely handsome asshole with a tattoo on his neck and a really mean face.

"Dude, sorry, but I got this one." I'm cocky. Mostly because this girl is insanely hot, and also because I'm totally boning for her—which means I'm not turning gay. Thank fucking God. "I mean... if you smiled, you'd probably have a chance with her, but, as it is, she's mine. Sorry du—"

A fist kind of cuts me off, but the only thing I like more than kissing girls is punching dudes in the face.

I take the hit like a pro and bounce back up onto my feet. Even after having a battle, like half of the team can hit harder than that. This guy's gonna hit the ground in about two minutes.

I let a second punch glance past me, and jump up and over his head, almost knocking my fucking skull against a rafter. When I land, I kick back and catch the back of one of his knees while twisting to give my elbow some speed when it connects with the side of his head. It doesn't put him down, but he's dazed enough for me to get some room between us so that I can move around properly. The rest of the bar seems to have realized what's happening and scatters in my wake.

I hate fighting in enclosed spaces. There's less room to dodge and weave. Like I almost found out before, the ceiling is low enough that I can't really jump around like an idiot, but as long as I have strafing room, I think I can manage.

He stumbles back to his feet and just glares at me as I bounce on the balls of mine from about ten feet away. Maybe he's rethinking his decision, and I smirk to egg him on.

"C'mon, man, ain't got all night. You just cut in front of that pretty girl to get a piece of this, now come 'n' get it, faggy Mc- whoop!" he interrupts me again—it's a really bad, unattractive habit if you ask me—this time by charging at me and trying to grab hold so that I'll stay still for more than a few seconds.

No dice.

I'm used to fighting guys that move faster and hit harder on a normal basis. This guy just moves like he's used to hitting the gym a lot. I know for a fact that half of Soldier and Demo's muscle mass is from brawling—usually with each other. Maybe I shouldn't fault this asshat for not getting in fights a lot; maybe it means that he's a real stand-up guy.

Too bad he's standing up right here, though—for him, of course.

I slug him across the jaw when I get an opening, and duck and weave when he tries to give me a nice, swift right, right, left. Any other guy and he might have gotten a hit in.

My legs flex, but before I can jump up and fuck this guy in the face with my fists, a huge-ass hand grabs me. There's a whirl of motion behind and around me as the guy tries to charge forward and gets Demoman and Soldier on either side of him, hauling him back by his arms. I can tell Heavy's the one with a grip on me, because his hands are fucking huge and his grip is always tight enough to leave a goddamned bruise.

His hand shifts from my shoulder to the back of my neck, and I get shoved in the direction of the rest of the team. Medic catches my upper arm, and I fight him a bit. I'm not a fucking little kid.

I open my mouth to tell him so when his other hand probes a cut in my lip and, instead of saying, "hey, Medic, fuck you, I'm not a fucking kid!" All that comes out is, "bitchfuckdamn, you sonofafuckinghorseradishcunt !"

"Don't talk ill of the dead, Scout." Medic's voice is sinister, as always. He might slur a bit, but Doc can hold his liquor like a total pro. His grip on my arm doesn't let up at all as he drags me out the closest exit—the back door—and the owner starts to yell at everyone to settle down and get out and whatever.

Fucking drama queen.

Medic drags me a little ways before shoving me. I catch myself against the wall and take a glimpse down the rest of the alleyway. It's the same one Spy and his boyfriend had been in earlier. I can't really tell where exactly they'd been humping all over each other, but some of the crap on the ground looks scuffled. Medic's yelling at me in crappy English because he's just _so pissed_ or whatever. I kind of skirt around where they might have been, and head back to the motel the team's staying at, ignoring Medic for the most part.

Everyone will probably find another bar to go to, and they'll start over on their Christmas celebrations without me.

Whatever.

I kick a can around and try not to poke at the split in my lip, or the swelling in my jaw.

I wonder what happened after I left. I mean, Spy doesn't seem like the kind of guy willing to bone or be boned in an alley. I kind of thought he was a little more classy than that. Maybe they didn't actually bone there, though. I mean, they weren't there just now. How long does it take fags to bone, anyway?

No, fuck you, I didn't think that. Shitfuckdamn—_whatever._

I try and clear my mind, but all I can see is Spy pushing the blonde dude away and giving him that asshole of a smirk he's got. It was really weird that the blonde guy was the one shoving Spy against the wall—I always kind of took Spy for a control freak. I see Spy walking down the alley, straightening his suit while the other guy hovers, trying to hedge his way back in to get at those lips again.

They're almost at the street when he pushes Spy against the wall. He's tugging at his jacket and mask, trying to get Spy to be as into the kiss as he is—

Dude, _seriously, what the hell. _

This shit is weird, and there's no way I'm healthy and thinking about this kind of craptastic faggy romance faggot shit. I can't get this goddamned door open because my key won't turn. My fist and shoulder and jaw hurt, and I have a million hour train ride tomorrow back to Boston. Shit, I'm tired.

I don't want to think anymore. Maybe if I fall asleep, I can leave all this gay shit behind. Wake up tomorrow like it never happened. That'd be nice.

I glance up at the room number of the door I'm at and sigh, slamming my forehead against the hard wood. "Mother fucking…" I take a nice deep breath, straighten and take two steps to the right to open my actual room.

I leave my pants on the floor and crawl into bed, ignoring the pain of my split lip and sore body.

When I fall asleep, it's easy and I don't even think about how gay Spy is.

It's over, it's gotta be.

I can just move on like it never happened.

Right?

Right.

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**Totally, Scout. Totally.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry this took a while. I had some major fleshing out to do and had an unplanned vacation to the coast. Yay.**

**By the by, Sean and Thierry have a tumblr now. The username is seanandthierry. Non-canon ficlets and art and updates and stuff. You can also ask them questions. Anyway, enjoy guys.**

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The whole way home to Boston, I keep coming back to thinking about Spy. Between hoping that Uncle Murph and Aunt Sheri aren't fighting this year and wondering if I can sneak away for two seconds to see Zoe, what he might be doing on Christmas keeps crossing my mind. I mean, does he have a family? Does he even celebrate Christmas? 'Cause, he's gay, and Christmas is kind of a _Christian_ thing… I guess he _could_celebrate it if he wanted to. Y'know, free country and everything. Even though he's French... I wonder if he'll spend it with blondie, or one of his lady friends.

Which brings me to another thing—how can Spy be gay and date women? Doesn't he have to like… make up his mind? Is it pretty usual for guys to like both…? Maybe Spy isn't completely off his rocker.

Pft. Yeah right.

I know what most of the other guys do on holidays. Some have family or friends that they'll talk about. Nothing out of contract, though. Just like saying, "my friend seriously stuffed a can of beer up the turkey's ass and it was the best damn thanksgiving I've ever had," or "my daughter got me a new pocket watch with blahblahblah algorithm written on it." Ten guesses to find out who the second one was.

I'm just glad I only have to fly across the country. I think Medic and Heavy actually go home (like Europe or wherever) and end up flying across the ocean for a few hours just to land and get on another plane and fly across land for a few more hours.

The only people that never talk about home, are Spy and Pyro. Well... Py talks, but really, how much can a guy understand through that fucking filter? It took us like a half-hour of "what…?" to get "pass the salt, dipshit" when it first joined up.

I dunno about everyone else, but I know I can't imagine spending a Christmas without my family around.

By the time the train starts slowing down and "Boston, Mass." gets garbled out over the loudspeaker, I've given up thoughts of Spy and the other guys. It's not my problem that their Christmas is going to blow because they don't have my family to spend it with.

Instead, I started thinking about the last minute Christmas shopping I have to do. The little city I got picked up in wasn't much in the way of gift shops. If I'd had enough time, I'd probably have stopped over in New York for a day and just done it there. I'll just have to make do with Boston. I've been away long enough—another day would just suck.

I grin and lean out the window. The air's cold and it burns my nose, but in a good way. I fucking love winter.

I can see my family on the platform—a sea of brunettes and then this one red headed girl in the middle. I let out a wolf whistle to get the girl's attention; I wink and grin as soon as her eyes find me. She grins too, bouncing in place on the platform. I can't wait for this stupid train to stop.

Zoe's the little Irish Princess of the projects near where I grew up. Even though her family never had anything, and she was always wearing hand-me-downs, she's still the prettiest girl I've ever seen. She looks good, and she's wearing the jacket I bought her last Christmas.

The train stops and I race down the aisle with my bag tucked against my chest. I'm the first one up and the first one off. I take the steps in one bound, and then I'm enveloped in arms and words. Family—it's something I'll always fucking have. No matter who I kill out in the desert, or what kind of unsavory job I have, I'll still have a place here; I'll always be accepted by this bunch of idiots.

Zoe wraps her arms around me, and I get an arm around her waist in return before the tide of bodies starts moving back toward the door. Everything around me is a blur. People are talking and laughing and kids are poking and hanging on me. I'm moving with the flow, knowing that they won't stop for me, even though I'm the reason they walked ten blocks in the middle of Boston's December to come greet me. My cousins Sam and Nathan are being the brattiest of the kids. It's kind of hilarious because they're seven and ten, punching me in the kidneys and it hurts like a goddamned bitch.

Zoe finally gets the two rascals and most of the brattier cousins swarming me to leave me alone. She's great with kids and gonna be an awesome mom someday, I just know it. Once I have enough attention span to focus on her a bit, I grin.

"Hey, Zo." I give her a real, two-armed hug when we stop at a corner and wait for the light. I easily lift her up and carry her with the tide of cousins and aunts and uncles and brothers once the little man pops up on the sign.

"Your ma's broodin' at y'house." She tells me, slapping my shoulders and giggling at her feet being a couple of inches off the ground as we move. Our group stops en-mass for a second light. This one takes a shorter time, and as soon as there's a break in the cars turning, children scramble forward and adults rush after them and the teens and younger adults just kind of mosey across like no one can get hurt while the Beatles are still making Records.

I set Zoe down before the walk, and she takes my hand. I smile and hold hers back, hoping it's not totally dorky and stupid.

"Sean and Zoe, sitting in a tree-" my elbow kind of accidentally hits Mark in the nose, but it gets the message across. I _was_turning around to bitch him out, but it's kind of nicer just watching him whine and clutch his nose.

Fuck, there's just so many people here during Christmas.

Once I'm in sight of the house, I let go of Zoe's hand. She smiles at me when I give her one last look and then I'm racing for the door. The snow kind of fucks me up, and I wonder if I'm losing my touch from running around in the godforsaken desert all the time. I still beat all my lame-ass brothers and the stupid kids to the house, though.

My oldest brother Jeff's sitting on the couch with his wife and twins. The Grands and Greats are all huddled with the babies and a few aunt and uncles around the TV. The house smells like baking and cider and cocoa.

I barely notice any of it as I rush into the kitchen and sweep Ma into a hug.

She's still wearing that same dress. One solid color with a black belt and a matching headband. She wore one just like it when I played ball. It was a different color, though. The team color was purple. Now the color's changed, but I know what she means by it. No matter what I do, she's going to support me. Hell, she even wore an orange one when I was in prison.

She laughs and reaches a hand back to hit my shoulder. "Welcome home, baby." Her palm cups my jaw, and I let her down so that she can hug me properly. I dunno if I've gotten stronger or more toned or something, because when she pulls away, she squeezes my shoulder and bicep and spins me around to get a good look at me before hugging me again.

"You look good, baby. Those people been treating you alright?"

"Yeah, Ma. They don't cook as well as you, but it's good enough."

She smiles and gives me another hug, then another before kissing my cheek and pushing me toward the door. "Go put your things down in your room and wash up—lunch is soon."

"Aw, yeah, real food." I hear her laugh and I give my oldest brother Jeff a high-five on my through the living room. My room is at the end of the hall, second biggest and plastered with baseball posters. There's one twin bed and a couple of fold out cots clogging up the floor space, and then random sleeping bags, pillows and blankets all over the floor. The bed is sloppily made, someone was probably sleeping in it while they all waited for me to get here. I remake it neatly before stripping off and laying my jacket down on the bed. I pull off my winter cap to join it and arrange everything neatly at the foot of my bed with my bag.

It's something Soldier drilled into me—when I first started with the company, my shit was everywhere in my room. He thinks he's a hot-shot commander and all that, so he pulled a bitch move and stole all my dirty magazines that were on the floor, wrote "I BEELONG 2 SCOOT" on them in magic marker and spread them all over the base. They were mostly all in the common room, but to this day, we still find one every now and then in a closet, on a ledge or in a drawer.

Fucking asshole.

Ever since, I've kept my room pretty clean. He tells me that a grown man should know the value of cleanliness, but I think he's just being a fag.

I wash my hands and face in the bathroom and scrub up to my elbows in warm water, enjoying the soft, sweet smelling soap that Ma always buys. The stuff we have at the base is rough and smells like nothing. It's really good at scrubbing off blood and dirt, though. I guess—in a warzone—that's all that really counts. Her towels are a lot nicer too. They're fluffy and smell like the fabric softener she uses. They smell like home.

I really miss being here.

A lump rises in my throat, and I take a deep breath into the towel. I try to choke it down and step over to sit on the edge of the tub. I have an entire week with them.

No sense in getting emotional. Not now… maybe when I leave, but not now.

I just fucking got here.

I hear a harsh knock on the door, and wipe my nose before standing. "Yeah, what?" I ask, walking over to wash my face again.

"Dinner's ready, asshole." I can't believe that Uncle Jack lets his kid talk like that. I know Ma'd bust our asses if we were little pricks to our elders.

"C'mere, you little shithead." I grin and open the door so fast that Sam doesn't have time to run. "This is for punching me so hard earlier!" I heave him over my shoulder and hold him with one arm while my other hand tickles the living crap out of him.

The living- and dining rooms aren't as crowded as they were last year—this is a different house, though. Once I got my debt to the company paid off, I bought Ma a new house. A bigger one. This one. A couple of my brothers are still living at home, and since Ma likes to be the host of holidays like this, I figured she could use some more space. This is only the third time I've actually been here, though.

"Sean, did I hear you cussing in front of Sam?" Aunt Jenna asks as I walk into the living room with her son. She looks kind of pissed off, and I pause in tickling. Sam and I glance at each other and grin.

"Naw, Aunt J, we were just catching up."

"Honey, put Sam down and go tell Robbie and Fredrick that it's time for dinner." Ma's kind of a hero. If I ended up on the wrong side of another one of Aunt Jenna's "little chat"s, I'm pretty sure it'd last the whole week I'm here, which would have been boring as shit.

I ain't got anything against good, honest to God Catholics, but I haven't been to Mass in a million months. If she finds that out, she'll probably drag me down to the nearest church and shove my face in the holy water.

I'm really not sure if there are enough Hail Marys in the world to cover all the killing I've done in the past year. I wonder if I even have to worry about it with respawn and all.

Sam's feet kick my back and the backs of my legs as I bend backward to set him down. He gives me a wet willy before zipping off again with the evilest laugh I've ever heard from a kid.

I give him the disgusted reaction he wants before heading down the hallway to start knocking on doors.

* * *

I've missed the snow so fucking much… it's been years since I've been at this park, too.

The girl cousins are making snow angels a few yards away while me and the boys and bros are having a snow war. The older folks are back at the house still, talking and drinking coffee and catching up—apparently they think they're "too mature" for our "tomfoolery." Jeff stayed with them. The guy's really gotten a big head since he got married, he thinks he knows everything and is a real big man.

Liam didn't change when he got married—if anything, he got sillier. He's always grinning at her and got this goofy look like he's still in the puppy-love stage. Seriously, they've been married for five months, shouldn't they be at each other's throats soon?

I fling a few more snowballs across no-man's land and hunker back down.

My face suddenly meets our snow barrier. I end up falling through, and I either have an older cousin on my back, or Zoe finally got up the balls to come over and hang out. High pitched giggles on my back give me a clue, and I roll over on my side, pinning her with my back to the hole we just made in the barrier.

"Do you know how long it took us to build this thing?!" I reach back and slap her ass playfully before rolling farther and mowing down the smaller hunk of barrier still standing.

"Ah! Sean, I can't breathe!" She's still giggling, so I know that's a load of shit. "Besides, y'mucker, it only took a few minutes to get tha' barrier up!" I stay where I am. "Ugh… Get your arse off of me, Sean!" She slaps me pretty hard in the ear, so I finally roll off of her with a shit-eating grin.

"Sean and Zoe, sitting in a tree!" All six girl cousins start the chorus up and the younger boys who aren't cool enough not to sing with them join in.

"Fuck off!" I roll my eyes good-naturedly and accept Zoe's hand up. She doesn't let go and starts pulling me off to walk with her.

"I'm gonna tell Ma!"

I sigh and pull my cap off, not even bothering to turn around and see who said it. Or ask which Ma they're telling.

We walk in silence for a bit, just enjoying the sharpness of the cold air, and the way the idiots on the basketball court keep slipping on icy patches. Zoe giggles as one of them takes a pretty nasty header into the pole, and I join her. There's kids running around, and a few people at the fountain, standing on the ice and hoping that it won't break under their weight. She finally pulls me over to sit on a nearby bench and leans into my side while we watch a couple of neighborhood kids sword fight with icicles.

"Sean, when are you gonna be home?" She doesn't look at me when she speaks. The way she says it is really deliberate, and she almost sounds American for a second.

"Probably dinner-time, why?"

She pushes me, an embarrassed smile winkling her freckled nose. I wonder how long it took her to get up the courage to ask again. "You know what I mean, y'mucker."

We fight for a few minutes, and I eventually let her push me off the bench.

"I dunno…" I finally sigh as I pull myself up and sit back down. Zoe leans over and brushes the snow from my head, but I push her away gentle enough that she doesn't start another fight and knows that I need some time to think.

We sit in silence. She's probably wondering if she pissed me off or what to say next, but I'm just doing mental math.

"Well… if I stay with them for another year, I'll have enough money to last me a while." I finally say. I guess it was kind of sudden, because Zoe jumps and looks up at me. "Just one more year, Zo'… awright?"

"Awright." She mimics my Boston accent and leans over to hug me.

I smile and hug her back, relaxing and trying not to think about how much I'll miss her and everyone else when I go back to work.

We don't get to stay together long, my family isn't one of those that knows when to butt the fuck out and give a guy and girl some privacy. I've only just started playing with her bright red curls and thinking about maybe stealing a kiss when arms wrap around my neck and I'm yanked hard against the back of the bench.

"God fucking dammit." I choke out, fumbling at the hands clasped at the front of my throat with my free hand. Zoe laughs and pins my other arm against the bench. "Fuck, Zoe, you traitor!"

Someday my family's going to fucking kill me.

I still love 'em all anyway, though.

* * *

**Sean, stop being straight. God.**


	3. Chapter 3

**So I ended up with 5 different versions of this same chapter... but it's ultimately better for it! Hope everyone's having a great month. I have a semi-daily ficlet thing going on during the month of December over on my tumblr if you guys want to see some fluff and Sean being a dick and then more fluff between chapters. Very little of it is canon, so there's not going to be any spoilers or anything.**

**Enjoy, we're about to get into the really really really fun part.**

* * *

The air in the little town outside our base is so freaking hot and dry. Engie was the first one back, as usual. He's waiting with Pyro inside the diner we always meet up in. When Pyro sees me come in, it stops sipping its chocolate malt and rushes over to give me one of those back-breaking hugs. Py and I… well, we're really good friends. I can kind of understand it sometimes, and it doesn't mind me calling it "_it._" Plus, it's a great listener and can make Spy crap his pants with just a look, which is _really _funny as shit to watch.

It muffles something to me, and I click my tongue against my teeth as I walk over and shake Engie's hand. I sit down between them and stretch. "Eh, y'know, same old, same old… Ma made me a sweater." I gesture to the logo on my sleeve. " 'S got one of these on it. She's pretty aweso—"

It suddenly grabs my sleeve and starts muffling at me like I've just told it we're getting free pop for a year. I don't understand a word of it until Py realizes it and starts miming to go with its words. I'm sipping a pop casually when it finally finishes and puts its hands on its hips. It's doing that thing where it looks at me all annoyed and taps its foot real impatiently.

Sometimes I pretend not to understand just because it's so fun to watch it go through all this.

"Oh…" I grin, finally done playing dumb. "You want one too, huh? Ain't it kind of hot out here for a sweater?"

In response, it flips me off and points to its shoulder logo before sitting back down and going back to its malt. I swear I can hear it grumbling between sips, but I know it won't stay mad at me for long. I'm too awesome.

Just as I'm settling into my second pop and Pyro's holding out its strawberry milkshake for me to take the strawberry off the top, Soldier arrives. He kicks in the front door with his foot, pretty normal. Lucky for the door, it opens inward. "MAGGOTS, JUST WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING SITTING AROUND ON YOUR ASSES WHILE THE ENEMY," I kind of stop listening here, but, y'know, he keeps going on about blah blah ENEMY blah blah I'M A FAGGOT blah blah. The whole usual spiel about how he's the head honcho and shit. It's actually really boring until he tosses his huge ass duffle back into me and makes me spill my soda all over the diner counter. My flailing elbow almost knocked over Pyro's milkshake, but it shrieked and saved it. Lucky. Now I have to buy another pop, but the diner's still going to be standing. That's more than I can say for the last place we ate at that Pyro lost its shit.

Some of the civvies slink toward the back door, but most of them stay put. I've only been on the base for a year, but Soldier's been here for ages, so most people in this town know he's crazy as fuck, but not really all that harmful. _Maybe_. Unless you're in the Marines, Navy or Air Force—he has something against the branches of the military that ain't the actual _Army_. Maybe it's because they all turned him down. Medic keeps telling us that Soldier was "likely never accepted into the United States Armed Forces." One time he said that to Solly's face, and he was healing his own broken nose and dislocated shoulder by the end of that fight. Then Soldier started shouting about "Nazi lies" and that turned into another fight that involved a few missing limbs and fingers and by the end of things Medic and Solly both had to go through respawn so they could fight again the next day.

Heavy and Medic arrive next, and Engineer looks at the clock on the wall before standing and paying for whatever had been on the plate in front of him—I think it was a piece of pie or something. Pyro and I stand too and follow him out. I can hear Heavy and Medic ordering sandwiches to go.

The back seat's pretty much reserved for Heavy and Medic. I kind of fucking hate sitting with them, because Heavy smells like sandwich meat and Medic usually counters it with smelling like disinfectant. Either way, it isn't cool, and I'd rather sit with Pyro anyway.

Soldier gets shotgun, because otherwise he'll threaten me with his shovel, or something. One time we actually had a fist fight over it, and Demo just slid into the seat and told Engie to start driving. I'm okay with running, but the base is like _hours_ from town even _with_ a car.

The only time he ever doesn't bitch and complain is when Sniper rides with us, usually. I dunno why, I guess whatever happened before I joined, but Sniper stretches his long-ass legs out in the front seat on every road trip we have. Lucky for Solly, when we go on actual holidays he drives his van.

"Spook should be here soon." Engie commented as he got in the driver's seat.

I'm sprawling across the middle section in the van. Pyro doesn't mind my legs being all over its lap because it's cool like that. Besides, I don't want Spy sitting next to me on the way back to the base. I'd rather sit next to Demo, since he's definitely not a faggot, on account of he had a _thing_ with the enemy Medic's wife—which makes him automatically a lot cooler. Demo's probably going to take his sweet drunken time to get here, so I relax back and get ready to wait. He usually takes fifteen minutes to get here after everyone else, but Spy's always _right on time._

I hear Pyro mumble out something or other and crane my neck to watch the van slide open. "Hey, Spy, have a good Christmas?" I ask, lacing my hands behind my head. He just snorts and brushes past really roughly, straining my neck to the side and being rude as shit by not saying, "excuse me," or anything. My hand shoots out to slap him out of reflex. I end up missing his back and smack his ass instead. He shoots me a glare before directing his foot to kick up and clips me in the back of the head with his heel. It doesn't hurt, and I'm really comfortable lying down after my stupid-long flight, so I don't do anything back.

"Betcha liked it, y'fag." I grumble and wipe my hand on the back of Soldier's seat with a disgusted expression at Pyro. It giggles and pats my leg like it's trying to console me.

I want to go back to the base even less now that I've been back home. Even though these assholes have kind of turned into a home away from home, they'll never be as great as the real thing. They're kind of dysfunctional and rowdy like my family, and there's eight of them, but that's where the similarities stop.

Pyro and I are playing I Spy (well, I'm playing, it's just pointing at random things until it finally gets what I'm talking about) and eventually we start harassing Spy in the middle of it all. I'll use my turn to say something like, "I Spy something… pretentious…" and then Pyro will look like its thinking really hard. Then it'll point at Soldier and then Engie and then finally, it'll turn its gaze on an uncomfortable looking Spy.

"Yup." I grin and pat Pyro on the shoulder. "Your turn."

Pyro makes some big gestures, and then starts straightening an invisible tie.

"You spy…. Spy?"

Pyro nods and gives me a double thumbs up.

I'm about to think of a really good one when Demoman finally shows up. As soon as the guy stumbles into the van, Soldier starts yelling about punishments and "hundred hours" and about how a good soldier is always on time. He's not even done with his rant or buckled in when Engie pulls out of the parking lot. The first half hour of the ride back, we can't hear the radio over Soldier's bitching. I'm already practically sitting on Pyro, trying to avoid any spit and anger that might fly my way, but it's seriously getting ridiculous.

"Soldier, permission to speak?" Spy sounds pissed off in the back. He's probably smooshed up against the wall with Heavy on his other side. No reason _not_ to be pissed about it.

_Unless he likes it because he's a fag. _A voice in my head reminds me.

Soldier finally fucking pauses in his asshole screaming, sits down in his seat and grunts out, "affirmative!" He doesn't look back or anything, just stares forward and waits for Spy to say what he's going to say.

"_Monsieur _Demoman passed out as soon as he took a seat in this van. Your yelling does not make him smell better, nor snore softer. Therefore, if you would be so kind, shut the fuck up. Or shall I submit a report to headquarters about how lacking your hold is over your own troops that they cannot return to the van at the correct pre-appointed time." Spy's voice is smooth and he almost sounds bored.

I don't glance back, because I know that I'm grinning like an idiot. Spy's always doing shit like this, acting cool and aloof while kind of reigning in the crazier members of the team (I think we've all been the team psycho at one point or another) and he just kind of takes it in stride like it's no big deal. It'd be kind of cool if he wasn't so… well, I guess it is cool, just as long as he doesn't know that.

Soldier grunts and grumbles something about leadership and dishonor. I think something about Sun Tzu pops in there too. Y'know, the usual.

As soon as there's some sort of silence, my eyes start feeling heavy as the jet lag catches up. Pyro slumps against my shoulder, and I lean against it in return. The last thing I hear before I fall asleep is Medic chuckling.

"It appears the children are going to sleep."

Fuck him. I have jetlag.

* * *

Unpacking always sucks, 'cause every single one of the presents I brought back reminds me of home, and why I'm not there right now and why I'm working my ass off in this fucking desert. I got a few rookie cards from my cousins, their dads think they like baseball, but they prefer football or soccer, I forget who likes which. We kind of all just grab a ball and start playing, regardless of preferences. Family's cool like that, you can just kind of mesh into the norm and forget that Cousin Sean spent a year in prison for beating a guy to death.

It probably helps that the fucker deserved every goddamned swing, and he wasn't tried as an adult. I don't know how they did it, but when HQ pulled me in to make their offer, they had my bat laying right out on the table. Bloodstains and everything. I would have figured it was evidence or something and I'd never see it again. It's one of the reasons I agreed to sign on—besides the whole getting paid, getting out of that rat trap, and getting a second fucking chance. If they could over-ride the cops, and the legal system… well, they'd probably be real good friends to have. Probably real dangerous too, but I didn't really care about that. I'm no pussy.

When I first saw that nice lady with the dark hair and mousy little glasses, I just figured she was a fresh lawyer, trying to get my case dropped or something. She was pretty, not too skinny with a soft kind of voice and full lips. I baited her around for a while, trying to flirt while I had the chance. Zoe came to see me when she could, but… yeah, it wasn't often, and the meatheads in the middle security prison they'd stuck me in weren't much for talking. The way I saw it, there was no way she was going to get me out of there, so I might as well have some fun while I had the chance.

After about three minutes of me jacking around, she told them to take the cuffs off, and that shut me right the hell up.

"You ain't a lawyer." I told her, rubbing my wrists and popping my knuckles just to watch the guards with us jump. There were a couple of guys with her, one that looked like there was a fucking redwood shoved up his ass, and the other was just kind of chilling there with a cigarette. _Now_, I know that they were a Soldier and a Spy—not the ones I'm stationed with now, but their class uniforms were the same, and their attitudes were similar. I think that Spy was a little less stuck up and bitchy than ours, but I think all Soldiers are militaristic psychopaths.

"You're right, I'm not." She agreed, smiling. I think she was trying to put me at ease. I was acting pretty relaxed, I thought, but my heart was racing and my muscles were tense. She could probably pick up on that.

"Then… you part of Rickie's family? I mean, he always said his dad's got 'connections,' " I made little sarcastic finger quotes because fuck Rickie. It's his fault I was in that mess, the little rat-ass fucker. May he rest in peace. Pft.

She smiled again, and I smirked back and leaned forward, resting my chin in my hands. "Well, if that's the case, can my last meal be a date with you? You're really pretty, Miss Pauling. Y'know, just as a dying man's request?" I winked at her, and she let out a soft laugh before leaning forward to level herself with me.

"How about we discuss the terms of your release instead." She pulled my bat out of her bag and put it on the table between us.

"The terms of my _what_?"

Someone knocks on my door, and pulls me out of the past. That all happened two years ago. Maybe a little less. It seems like a lot longer. Everyone knew why I did what I did. I'd told 'em straight up why I did it—because the guy was fucking _scum. _I ain't ever run away from a single thing in my life. That's the one good thing my dad taught me, besides how to hold a bat right. You don't run from something, because it doesn't do anyone any good.

They knock again, and I look at my progress on the last of my socks. I'm almost done, do I really want to let someone pull me away from it and forget about it? Then Soldier will probably spread them around the base and put them on doorknobs and everyone knows what kids use fucking socks for. Another knock, this time louder and more frustrated. It could be one of three people. Py sometimes comes by just to hang out and get soot all over my quilt—the prick. It could also be Soldier. He's always going around doing random bunk checks like he owns the place. It's kind of weird for him to knock, though, so it could also be Demo with some fancy hooch he wants to share. Pft, yeah right.

"Yeah, yeah, come in." I call as I return to my socks, knowing that if it's Soldier, he'll bust the fucking door in pretty soon. The person's too quiet to be Solly, so I'm only a little surprised when the door opens and a polished shoe steps next to my bag. Spy clears his throat for my attention, and I look up and lock eyes with him. "Hey… sup?" I sit back on my ass from crouching and stretch my legs out in front of me.

He shifts a six-pack in his hand and the bottles clink together, it's one of those high-priced specialty pops. I think it's like made in Europe or something. That or the Midwest. Fuck if I know.

"These were given to me by a colleague, though I doubt he was entirely serious in thinking that I might like them. I offered them to... the Pyro, but he pointed me toward your room." He shifts the pack closer to me, and I see that one of the sodas is open.

I reach for it, but Spy pulls the pack back out of reach. "Of course, a favor for a favor would not go unnoticed..."

"Uh..." So many different 'favors' rush through my head that I'm left staring up at him and looking kind of retarded. "What the fuck do you mean 'a favor'?" All I know is that I ain't sucking a dick or taking it for pop.

"Oh, just a little _something_ to show that we can get along…" he smiles creepily, and I shake my head.

"Nope, no. No way, I'm not doing anything faggoty with you. You can just forget—"

"Scout, what are you talking about?" When he looks genuinely confused, I feel my stomach drop out and I start mumbling a lot of bullshit. Spy starts to look more annoyed, and he turns away with a scoff. "Americans…" he mutters as he opens my door again.

"N—hey, wait, what did you want?" If it wasn't anything gay or something like that, I could do it—probably, anyway.

"Oh, just a simple gesture—leave me alone for an entire month."

I consider it for a while, rubbing my chin and making a show of mulling over his offer. "You don't _want_ 'em, though." I remind him, and when he drifts back close enough, I grab for the open one again, because like shit I'm going to do anything for him if I don't know if I like what I'm getting in return.

"Regardless, I'm sure that Demoman would love something to cut his new…" he makes a face, "_whatever_ he crawled back from the holidays with." He rolls his eyes at me, and I really just want to punch him across the jaw.

"Yeah, yeah. Just leave you alone for a month? I get to try a sip before I agree."

"Of course..." He states, hooking the knuckles of his free hand around the rim of the open soda and handing it to me. It's still pretty cold, and when I take a sip, it fizzes and stings like it was just recently opened.

I smack my lips and think about it, holding the taste on my tongue while I tip the label up to read it. I can understand the characters, but it ain't in English. "This is real high-quality sugar, you sure that's all you want? I can take a lap around the battlefield naked, or maybe teach you how to shoot a real gun." I nod my head toward my Force-A-Nature hanging on the wall. I don't use it much, because the kick is a real bitch, but she's still a great gun.

"… _no_, that won't be necessary." He tells me, making a face like he doesn't want to see _this_ running around in the sun at top speed.

"Sure, Fenchie." I grin at him before tilting the bottle back and draining the rest in one go. I burp and smirk when his expression turns to pure disgust. "Nice doin' business with ya."

"_Oui_..." He mumbles, setting the rest of the six-pack on my desk before leaving.

Maybe he's only gay for fags. That would make sense, right? Because I'm as straight as they come, and that way he wouldn't be gay for me.

Yeah, that's gotta be it.

* * *

I don't leave my room a lot for the first few days we're back. Usually I'd be going for a run, or bugging one of the guys for entertainment, but I just feel like I'm in a funk. Even Spy pretty much telling me to fuck off and leave him alone doesn't get me up and raring to go. Normally I'd be _right on that_, hanging around and making comments and letting him know what's what in life. Y'know, just to share the wealth of knowledge.

Mostly what I want is to go back home.

Zoe'd given me a picture collage of us. It wasn't big, just a normal picture frame with twelve of those little photos you get from the kiosks at the mall in it. They weren't recent, and we hadn't had the time to get together and take new ones this trip. Guilt bites me in the gut, and I lean over to make a note to apologize to her in my next letter. We write pretty often, and while I wait for her to reply to my letters, I make notes for stuff to talk about in mine.

I don't go into the whole blood and guts thing, even though she went to see _The Kiss of the Vampire_ with me when we were kids, she kind of freaked out when the blood gushed from what's-her-face's coffin. And that was just a movie. I'd hate to see what she'd do if she watched one of our battles, or read the gory details, or knew I "died" on a regular basis. I just stick to the normal stuff, what I read or watch, how my baseball teams are doing and sometimes, if Spy or Medic cooks, I'll talk about whatever awesome _weird as shit_ stuff they make.

Someone knocks on my door, and I sit up a little more. "Yeah, come in." I call, tucking the frame to my side in case it's one of the assholes that will tease me about my "girlfriend." They already giggle and carry on when I get letters from her—even though her name is blacked out, other stuff like the address to here is visible, and she's got like _really_ nice handwriting, so they can tell it's from a girl.

Pyro pops its head in and when it sees me relax and sigh, it steps in and closes the door. Bouncing over and hopping up on the bed, it crosses its ankles and leans back on its hands, giving me one of those black-lensed looks of its that makes me want to just start talking.

"Nothing's wrong." I tell it, pulling my pillow around and hugging it to my chest as I scoot up farther and cross my legs. It muffles at me and shakes its finger like it's telling me I'm a bad kid. "I'm just homesick. Again. It happens, Py." I rest my chin on my pillow and glance at the rectangle face down on my bed.

Pyro slowly reaches for it, and when I don't stop it, it picks it up and has only glanced at it before it starts muffling and making gestures. I grin and shake my head. "Nah, we're just friends, man." Now, anyway. It wasn't always that way and—once I finish my contract—won't be for long. "I don't wanna tie her down, and that long distance shit is stupid—never works out." I shrug at its next muffle and bite the inside of my lip to keep myself from grinning like a fucking mook. "Yeah, she _is _pretty."

Another muffle, and some hand gestures to resemble hair.

"Yeah, it's red… like _red red_. It's pretty awesome." I agree, and it makes a long string of agreeable muffles before settling down next to me on its stomach and pointing at her face. Its gloves are really thick, so I don't know if it's pointing to something specific or not, but I just go with it. "Yeah, she's got a lot of freckles. You can't see a lot of 'em in the black and white photo, because most of 'em are really light, but they're all over her cheeks 'n' nose. She hates 'em, but I think they're cute." Pyro muffles at me again, and I just nod absently.

It makes a motion with its hands that approximates the curves of a woman's body and I snort. "No way, flat as a board, but she's got a pretty cute butt. She eats pretty good ever since her ma remarried, so she's not as chicken legged skinny as she used to be." Before her and my Ma had a falling out, she used to come over for dinner most nights, and then we would watch TV or do homework together. Ma couldn't feed the neighborhood, but one more mouth wasn't much of a problem most nights. Even with eight growing boys to feed, Ma at least made sure that Zoe got a helping before my brothers and I ate everything in sight.

It muffles a little sadly, and I pat its shoulder. "Yeah, well, life's tough sometimes. She's doing good, though. In college and working. Y'know… Making something good of herself." Like I would've been—with her—if that asshole Rickie had just kept his ass in line. Pyro muffles and I pretend like I don't know what it's asking. Not to get a rise but just because, for once, I don't want to get into it. "Maybe some other time, Py." I finally tell it, just to get him to stop gesticulating.

It sighs and rests its chin on its folded arms, looking up at me.

I smile and pat its shoulder. "You did help, pal. Thanks. I'm feeling a little better."

His next muffle is _clearly_, "ice cream?" and who am I to say no to those big empty black saucers when Engie's homemade ice cream is involved?

Spy is in the kitchen when we walk in, making something faggy, like _tea_. Pyro muffles at him real genially, and I can practically see his muscles tighten beneath his suit. I've always wondered why Spy hates Pyro so much—as long as he doesn't wear the enemy's color and doesn't talk down about Py's shows, insult its bubbles or talk about seriously taking the suit off, he should be good. Pyro's a real nice guy, I don't know what Spy's problem is.

Pyro hums as it gets the ice cream out of the freezer, and I hop up on the counter next to Spy.

"So, how many of those sodas do you have left, Scout?" Spy asks, pouring hot water from a stove-top kettle into his mug. I think he's trying to hint at me to go away, but this is a team-room, and I didn't say anything first.

"Three. I'm makin' 'em last."

"Good. I do hope that you will stick to our agreement after they are all gone, hm?" He glances at me, and I think he's trying to intimidate me or something to get me to agree.

I grin at him and slip off the counter so that I can get the bowls out of the cabinet behind me. "Oh, yeah. For sure, man." Bowls in one hand, I turn to face him and raise my left hand, palm out. "Scout's honor."

"Hmm… indeed." Spy flips the kettle to dry in the sink and takes a sip from his steaming mug before adding some sugar and turning away. "If that is the case, then, _adieu_. I hope that you will at least emerge from your room on time for battle tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah. You not wanting me around just got me _so_ down in the dumps." I stick my tongue out after him. "_Fag._ Seriously, Py. If you were as gay as that guy, wouldn't you _want_ this," I motion to all of me—head to toe, shoulder to shoulder, " to hang around you?"

Pyro looks up at me, silent, and then tilts its head to the side and muffles something or other out. I just stare back, and then it starts pantomiming. I take over dishing out the ice cream, making sure the bowls are heaping, still glancing at it making hand gestures and then it puts its hands on its hips and moves them in a circle. I snicker and pop the lid back on the ice cream.

"I dunno what you just said, Py. But, yeah. Spy's totally gay." It crosses its arms and muffles at me, it's not angry, though. More like annoyed. "Well, it ain't my fault you wear that thing all the time." I poke its mask and hand it a bowl of ice cream.

We sit in the common room in silence for a while, watching whatever's on the TV and trying to eat our ice cream down enough that it's not melting over the sides of our bowls. Pyro asks about the deal Spy and I made, and I tell him about it. It laughs and slaps my shoulder before starting to play charades with me again, and I sigh, leaning back against the couch arm and watching. I hope it doesn't spill its ice cream. Then we'll _both_ have to clean it up.

"You think I should bug him anyway?" I ask, raising a brow. It nods and muffles more. "Because it'll just make him hate me and then… I won't have to worry about him being all faggoty around me." It nods and raises its hand for a high five. I didn't know that Spy acted faggoty around me in the first place—the episode in my room kind of showed he's either not interested or a really good liar—but I slowly slap Pyro's hand back. "Yeah, that could work. Wasn't really planning on leaving him alone anyway. Sniper told me that if I go near his camper again, he'll demonstrate how to skin a live animal, and everyone else has been pretty cool lately. Spy's _always_ a dick, so yeah. Makes sense."

I figure if you can't trust a guy, why should he expect to be able to trust you?

Pyro muffles and then goes back to watching TV and finishing its ice cream.

I'm totally finishing the pop before I do, though. I know he's not above breaking into my room and taking it back.

* * *

**Tl;dr: the really really really fun part is going to be Sean being a raging dick all over the place.**

**Merry Christmas all! **


	4. Chapter 4

It's been a week, and I'm still trying to balance myself between being annoying and being _too annoying._ It's a fucking _science_.

If I'm too bad, Spy will leave, but if it's not enough, he'll just ignore me and that's even worse. When I get it just right, though?

Oh, _man_, it's great, and the best part of all is that I don't get bored of it. _At all_.

I mean, usually I'll run out of material, or steam or _something_ and have to pull back or take a break or… _something _with the other guys. You can only make so many fat jokes around Heavy before getting fed up with yourself, and it's really fucking hard to stay out of Nazi territory around Medic—one bad experience with _that,_ and you don't do it again. Ever.

With Spy, it's different, though. He can be doing something as mundane as making waffles and I've got something to say about it. There's no limits with him, nothing I can't touch.

It's fucking _magic_.

I started out real small, arguing with him over table conversation the night that I finished the last of my pop. It was over something stupid and small-talky, like where Spy thought the best food was, since he's probably had way more travelling than any of us. He talked about New York, Philly and Kentucky like they were the food havens of America.

"Pft. I ain't ever been to Kenfucky, but I know that New York and Phila-fucking-delphia don't have jack-shit on Boston's chowder." I snorted, tossing a pea at him across the table.

Spy rolled his eyes toward me and gave me this huge sigh like he wasn't taking me seriously. It's easy to piss someone off when it seems like just talking will get you there. "Oh? I do not particularly like chowder. Crème-based soups are not to my palate."

"Palate? The fuck are you talking about?" I made a face at him, and Spy turned to face me across the table instead of facing Engie. "That some kind of fag word for—"

"Perhaps we should set up a children's table in the corner. I am neither your teacher, parent, nor babysitter. If you cannot keep up in an _adult_ conversation, then do not butt into them like an impudent—"

"Lemme guess, some fancy word for _kid_? or a French word that could mean fuck knows what?" I snorted and tossed another pea at him.

His mouth twisted in irritation as he batted the pea away from where it had bounced down next to his sleeve. "Will you really go to any length in order to have the last word?"

That just begged for an innuendo, "ew, man. Fucking gross! I don't know about you, but I get my last words all on my own." I nudged Pyro with my elbow and snickered, "length, get it, Py?"

Spy just scoffed and tapped his watch to phase out. His chair moved, and we could hear the click of his heels as he left.

I dunno what I expected, but that was the first time that Spy ran away from me. After that, I kind of started to figure out how to balance it out. Like I said, science.

I'm finally giving him a break today, though. I can't keep riding him, what if he gets burned out and stops reacting and it's not fun anymore?

I reorganize all my cards and put them back into their protective sleeves. Looking through a few of my old skin mags doesn't even help. I don't see anything that really tickles my fancy there, so that leaves me a few choices in my room and then a million choices outside.

Where Spy is.

I could always run, but I pulled a muscle yesterday hurdling the enemy fuckwad Scout, so Medic told me to take it easy for a few days or make myself respawn. Soldier offered to help me with the respawning part, but I respectfully told him where he could shove that shotgun he was fingering.

Maybe make a sandwich and then I'll feel like doing… _something_ other than finding Spy and making fun of his accent or the way he dresses or his (probably) ugly as shit face under the mask, or… y'know. Just something else.

Spy spends a lot of time in his room, but I can hear the TV on my way to the kitchen. I glance in and see the top half of a masked head over the top of the couch. Grinning, I continue on to make a sandwich and then tiptoe in to stand behind the couch for a bit. I won't be hurting anything if I just stand here, thinking about all the shit I could do or say.

He's watching a movie in French. It looks really lame, but it has a pretty dame in it. I don't think Spy has used his super Spy-senses to notice I'm there, and I'm getting tired of standing, so I just kind of vault over the back of the couch and plop down with my feet in his lap. At least I was careful not to kick him in the back of the head. My hamstring twinges, and I hold my sandwich in my mouth while I readjust so that it's not screaming bloody murder at me. I hate pulled muscles. I wish someone on base would massage it for me, but Medic told me I would do better to just call someone from town that gets paid by the hour.

He's kind of a dick like that.

"Scout, get your feet off of me. Actually, no—Scout, go away." Spy doesn't even look at me, just pushes at my feet while his eyes stay focused on the screen. Apparently he's really into the movie.

"What are they saying?" I ask, picking up a word here and there, but: "A blah in the blah, if blah blah, is a blah laugh. It's true. There's a blah…" doesn't really… y'know, work in an entertaining sense.

"They're telling you to get the fuck out." He glances at me, and I see his jaw clench.

"Well, at least my socks are clean." I keep my feet right where they are, and take a bite of my sandwich. I brush some crumbs on my shirt off onto the floor. He makes a disgusted noise and finally turns from the TV to glare at me.

"Get your feet off of me before I remove them from you." His tone is supposed to scare me, but for some reason it just gets my blood pumping.

I grin and shift so that my feet are farther in his lap. "Hey, hey, I you think mean '_for'_ me, right? Doncha know English?"

"No." His hand reaches into his jacket and his knife clickety-clacks into the open. "_From_… as in _no longer attached_."

"Okay, okay… Jeez!" I finally draw my legs back enough that they're not in his lap, and part my knees so I can still see him. "So what're the fags on the TV sayin'?"

"I've been meaning to ask you—what happened to our agreement?" He's annoyed, but he doesn't really seem pissed about me using the word "fag," which is kind of weird, because fags usually find it offensive. Come to think of it, every other time I used it last week, I was also saying something _else_ that he might have been pissed off at too. Dammit, I totally thought that "fag" was an instant-piss-off for Spy.

"Pft," I sit up and stretch forward to put my sandwich on the coffee table. "I thought Spies didn't trust anyone." I lean back and watch him turn back to the TV. "That's why you wear these, right?" I lean over and pop the edge of his mask with my index finger.

I can't help but notice as I lean closer that he smells _good_. I can't really place what it is about the brief whiff that I like, but it's just… _really_ _nice_. Probably just 'cause it's expensive as shit cologne.

His hand snaps up and grips my wrist hard, and he finally turns from the TV again to stare me straight in the eye.

"Do not _ever_ touch my mask again, boy. I wanted to be left alone for a reason. Please, for the last time, _go away_." His voice is firm, but it doesn't make me want to leave. I just wanna keep him talking, even as his hand tightens painfully around my wrist.

"Why are you being so bitchy? You got a man period or something going?"

"No, I simply do not like you, and wish to be left alone to my movie."

I give him a pout for that stinger and try to yank my arm away. No dice. "Huh. What's it about?"

He finally lets my wrist go and starts talking in really fast French. I think it's impossible for him to sound angry when he's speaking it. I eventually give up on him saying anything I can understand and put up my hands defensively. "Whoa whoa whoa, I took French in school, but I didn't _take French_. I was just in it for the chicks."

"And how did that work for you?" He rolls his eyes and turns back to the TV again.

"Better than it worked for this one guy I knew—his name was Rickie, he was a grade A asshole."

"Hmm… that's a boy named in your file." I think he finally realizes right here that I won't go away unless I get some conversation.

"Aw, man, did I just break contract? I was doing so fucking well…" I sigh and lean over to scoop up my sandwich.

"No, it's okay to name _the dead_. That's why his name wasn't marked out in your file. While it wouldn't have meant anything to most people reading it, least of all myself."

I just sit there for a moment, munching and nodding in thought.

"Yeah, dude had it coming though, let me tell you—"

"I'd _really_ prefer that you _didn—_"

"There was this one kid named Jaime—"

"Scout, I am not above _removing_ your tongue." He grits out, and I decide I might have overstepped a bit. I take a bite of sandwich to try and backtrack back into the happy-talking-Spy realm instead of I-will-stab-whatever-part-of-you-is-annoying-me-Spy.

He clears his throat after a bit of an uncomfortable silence and I look at him as he sighs and shrugs. "I didn't read it very thoroughly. You read one Scout's background, you've read them all." He smiles craftily and turns his head to look me in the eye. "Hooligans and hoodlums, the lot of you."

"Hey, hey, I'm not just _some Scout_, man." I toss my sandwich back down on the table and get ready to tell him just who the fuck he's dealing with. "I'm the _best damn Scout _you've ever seen. You want someone to run fast? You don't call me. You want someone to run _really fucking fast_? _Then_ you call me." He scoffs, but I keep going, moving my hands while I talk, trying to get him to understand something. I'm not here because I killed a guy. I'm here because I killed a guy and because I was on Track and Field scholarships to one of the best private schools in the fucking country. They just let me into Baseball because I kicked ass in that too, and that worked out fine for me. That's what I'd been aiming for all along. "You want a fucker to jump? Pft, lots of guys can jump pretty high with a little athletics training—look at all of you mooks." I motion to him and then toward the door. I notice Pyro leaning on the doorjamb and watching us, but I've finally got Spy's attention, so I'm not going to give it up. "Me?" My index fingers flick toward my face, "I'm built for fucking _flight_, man. You want a chump that can swing a bat? I've been swinging one my whole damn life. Sometimes at heads, mostly at baseballs, and occasionally a kneecap is mixed in. Point is, no one can do my job better than me. No one."

"Fascinating… did you run from the police when they arrested you for murdering your own classmate?"

He catches me kind of off guard, but I shrug it off and thumb my nose as I settle back down. If they've got anything in my file about Rickie, that bit would have to be in there. "Nah, that'd just be trouble for my Ma." I shift around and put my feet back up in Spy's lap again when my hammy starts to tense up again. He shoves them off and onto the coffee table. Right into the middle of my sandwich.

"Do it again, and my knife will sever your Achilles tendon."

"Dunno what that is, but it sounds important." I pout and move my feet off my sandwich. " Achilles was a pretty awesome guy, though."

"You have seen the films, then?" I can _feel_ him rolling his eyes at me as I lean forward to examine the squished remains of my sandwich.

"Nah," I finally pick it up and give it another look over before taking a bite. He grunts in disgust, and I take another one to make my point. "I read a lot of books in prison." I tell him through a mouthful of sandwich. "They were alright, some were kinda hard to get into, but they were better than staring at the wall or trying to bulk up using the cell as a gym, y'know?" Bulking would just fuck up my running. I can only do so much cardio before I get bored, and they only allowed us an hour of yard time.

"No, I don't, I have never had the misfortune of getting caught."

"Hey, I didn't 'get caught,' I like… gave myself up. There's a _difference_."

"Of course there is…" He sighs and stands and I glance over to see the credits rolling. "It's all yours. Don't follow me if you want to keep your little feet in working order."

"Hey, hey, they're _not little_."

He just chuckles as he disappears through the door.

I smile a little and take a deep breath to yell after him, "_I totally got the last word—a chuckle doesn't count!_"

As I sit there alone, a guy comes on the TV and starts talking in English about how great French cinema is and how it really took huge steps during blah blah blah… I sigh and eat the rest of my sandwich as another movie comes on. The spot where Spy was sitting is warm against my shoulders, and I rest my head on the armrest. Just now, I felt a little closer to Spy, kind of like I'm not just being a bratty nuisance anymore. Like just now he might have liked me being here, just a little bit. Besides the whole threatening to remove my legs thing, anyway. I mean, I know without a doubt that I've been nothing but a brat for the past few weeks, but he just seriously let me sit here and talk.

It was… really cool of him. Y'know?

As the opening credits finish, I remember the reason I never learned anything in French class. The characters have barely said ten words before my eyes start to get heavy, and my sandwich drops to the carpet as I fall fast asleep.

:::::

I don't know what wakes me up, but it isn't the hand on my shoulder. Maybe it was the change in the air—the scent of smoke that I'm starting to get familiar with. I know what I'll see before I even open my eyes. Unamused blue eyes set in pale skin and surrounded by the thin fabric of Spy's mask.

"Shit…" I croak, feeling like I've just woken up after only a few minutes of sleep. "What the fuck, man?" I whine and yawn at the same time, wanting to go back to sleep, clutching at a dream I might or might not have been having.

"If you would like to sleep, do so in your own room. Pyro has been keeping the rest of the team out of here for hours."

"Mn…" I groan and sit up, noticing that there's a blanket over me. "Hours?"

He just nods and takes a draw on his cigarette. "Might I suggest you move to your own room? _Again_."

"Yeah… okay…" My feet barely miss the rest of my sandwich, and I wonder if I should pick it up or not before I notice the disapproving look Spy is giving me. I scoop it up and he doesn't really give an approving nod, but it's better than the feeling that he'll get pissy if I don't pick it up.

He's probably being a dick because Pyro's been playing guard dog while I sleep.

I pat Py's head on my way out of the common room. It says something and I give it a thumbs up before hearing the squeak of its boots as it runs into the common room. Curses and taunts follow me down the hall as the rest of the guys file into the room to watch TV or play cards, but I feel too out of it to really make some good comebacks.

Fuck.

I collapse on my bed and pull my covers up, staring at the ceiling.

I can't sleep now that I've got that nap in, and I turn my head to look at the pictures of Zoe and I on my bedside table.

In one of them she's kissing my cheek, and another she's shoving my face away when I tried to get a peck on the lips. Women.

Even though there's a lot of hubris on that thought, I'm still smiling like an idiot. God, if all that shit hadn't gone down, we might be married or something dumb right now. I don't know how I'd have afforded a ring. Maybe just given her something fake until I made it someplace.

Could have been in the 'Leagues with two years of college under me. Could have been starting my third year and changed my plans from being a pro ball player to doing something like being a physical trainer, or lawyer, or… or… _something_.

Fuck.

I kick off my covers and grab my shoes, almost all in the same movement. I can't stay still, I have to move.

So I leave the base and take off running.

The muscle in my injured leg hurts like a bitch, but I ignore it and keep going. Eventually, the sharp pulling fades to just a dull ache, and I can deal with it.

I don't know how many laps I get in, but by the time I finally sit down and turn the water faucet on, the sky looks like a fucking rainbow in the west, dark blue fades through the motions until the pink and reds following the sun end the cycle. It's the kind of thing I'd watch through bars and wish Rickie had never existed.

I lie down with my head under the faucet, holding my breath. I turn my face to the side when my lungs can't take it anymore, but my face is still hot as shit from running around in the fucking desert. I gasp for breath, trying not to drown myself in the process, and the water cuts off when I choke on accident.

"Boy, I know you ain't too bright, but there's easier ways to take care of a pulled muscle."

I turn my head to look up at Engie, and my hair squelches in the mud. "Wasn't tryin' to." I tell him, sitting up and shaking my head. I hear him curse when water and mud get slung at him, and his left hand hits the back of my head. Mainly because if he'd used his right, I probably would have gone through respawn, and that shit's hard enough when you're expecting to die.

"Well, get up and get washed. Dinner'll be ready soon." He offers his hand and I take it, levering myself up and then falling back down again when my leg gives out.

"Well, thanks for trying, Hardhat." I grumble, waving my hand at his offer of help again and taking a deep breath. "This is what I get for not listening to Medic—go ahead and respawn me." I keep my eyes down, watching my fingers fumble with each other.

He sighs, and I hear the button on his pistol holster click open. My heart races with the anticipation of it, and then there's some pain, but he's too close to miss anything vital, and gives me a quick death.


End file.
